


Bones

by LadyProto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Light Angst, Loneliness, Sad, chorus, lake, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost and a cyborg on a radioactive shore. There's nothing natural, but he will pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones

**Author's Note:**

> She's SORT OF underage. Katie Jensen is 17 in this fic, I don't know if that bothers anyone. Also set loosely to the song "Bones" by the Killers. This one is kind of sad, but it's a soft kind of sad. I have a fluffy Jensen/Simmons in the works tho!

It’s an unholy vision set in the deepest reaches of the Chorus Caves and the algae of the toxic lake skim across the brackish water like nyphms in ancient tragedies. Katie Jensen glides across the wet sand of the toxic sludge like a ghost, so stark white she’s bloodless,the color of the bones and ash. I’m not sure how she’s human, but maybe she’s not fully. The radioactivity isn’t safe for anyone at this proximity, but it lights up her pale skin to an ethereal glowing green. She’s the ghost that will haunt the caverns with sorrowful, white fluttering whispers after she’s gone, and I’m the cyborg whose bones will never rot away. The spirit and the robot; two things that shouldn’t exist, walking hand and hand in the haze of radiation.

She’s brazenly and un-appolgetically dressed, and she coyly flashes glimpses of her small breasts and crosses her arms to try to entice with what little she has. Her jeans hug her hips, showing off the pear-shaped curves of her immature sexuality. She’s only 17, still a girl who hasn’t had the opportunity to learn how to be a woman, but she wants so badly to be a woman tonight. I can tell by the way she tosses her hair as she flutters platinum eyelashes to nervously look up at me.

I pity her more than I resent her. I see myself, awkwardly trying to ask out the pretty girls in college. I replay my pathetic attempts at performing masculinity when in reality, I could never call myself a man. I am and have always been just a skeleton made from the iron bones of incompetence with a self-sustaining black hole of self doubt swirling in the void of my skull.

Katie speaks finally, gesturing to herself. “I asked Heather if she would let me wear some of her clothes. I don’t have anything but cargos now."

“Who..?” I find my voice creaky and rusted.

“Heather.” Her lisp is a little less pronounced. Her retainers must be gone, or maybe she’s been practicing in order to sound more mature. “You know, Lieutenant in Pink? Volleyball girl.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Ms. College Varsity Volleyball. She’s the closest thing to a film noir femme fatale this side of the Civil War: tall, curvy, a whirlwind of blazing find that slimmed away after she was satisfied. She was in charge of intelligence, so she rarely saw combat despite her athleticism. If Jensen’s choice of attire was any indication, the rumors were true: Ms. Volleyball coaxed the military secrets out of Generals in dark rooms while she lied with face into the mattress. 

The co-ed in hot-pink terrifies me. I don’t know how to act around women. Maybe I’m like my mother, weak-willed and petty. Maybe I’m like my father, violently unsatisfied at everything presented to him. Or maybe I’m both, desperately insatiable and malcontent, even as the ghost-like perfection of Katie Jensen offers herself to me on the contaminated dirt in the middle of a Civil War.

In a moment of weakness I go to her. It’s evolution I tell myself, a natural process that keeps us alive. I know what she wants, but I don’t have it to give. She wants her captain to love her, to return to her after the war with a diamond ring and whispered promises of suburban life style. She’s wants picket fences and two children with unruly locks of red hair and freckles painted over their baby faces like stars in the sky. She wants me, all of me, holding on to her hand in our adjoined graves even as centuries pass and our skeletons turn to dust.

I have no reason to be here with her. I’m not exactly in love but she’s the low hanging fruit and I’m dying to put something onto my bones. Love is a chemical reaction, and I’m hoping I’ll find the catalyst between her legs. All I’ve ever wanted was to repel the deep seated loneliness, that emptiness that paints everything else in my life with the same black as the stagnant water behind us. She's spread out in front of me awkwardly trying to keep up her adult act, even as she nervously waits for me to gently part her thighs. I press my metal frame into soft flesh and in turn soft flesh into the cold wet sand. There’s a vision in my head, and my inner voice reassures me tomorrow will be better. If I can just hold on to her a little tighter, a little longer, I will begin to love her.

It’s all bones against bones, and the false promises of holding hands in an eternal grave. There’s metal hips against pale girlhood, and rough kisses of scarred puckered lips against cherry lip-gloss as we both grip at each others core for things we can never obtain.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like sad Simmons sex, might I interest you in my story Brick? As always you can request or ask questions at http://yourscientistfriend.tumblr.com/ or in the comments below.


End file.
